


Viva la Vida

by FreedomColouredBlue



Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And he's a huge nerd., Because Rhys loves Mass Effect, Blood, Dark!Rhys, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Murder, Rhys as Jack's PA, mass effect references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-01 22:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8640955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreedomColouredBlue/pseuds/FreedomColouredBlue
Summary: The King is deadLong live the King A collection of snippets detailing the aftermath of Handsome Jack's death, and how his lover ascendend to the throne of Helios and brought him back to life.





	1. Now the old King is dead, long live the King

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! As always, I apologize for any mistakes. I've been meaning to collect a series of one-shots from my AU where Jack and Rhys were in a relationship before he died on Pandora. After his death, Rhys takes control of Helios, with a little help from his favourite Vault Hunter, and does what every loving boyfried would do: tries to bring him back to life.
> 
> Hope you'll like it!

Reports are flooding in from all across Helios.

 

«Rhys?»

 

Handsome Jack is dead.

 

«Rhys, what do we do know?»

 

His boss. His beloved. His god.

 

«Rhys, are you listening to me?»

 

Even now, the vermin who once wriggled at Jack's feet, desperate to bask in even the faintest tendril of his light, are making their final preparations to take the throne of Helios for themselves, Rhys is certain of it. In his mind, he can almost see Blake barking orders to his minions, foaming from his hideous grin, free at last from the shackles of duty and loyalty to his CEO. And Vasquez? Oh, surely he can't wait to lick every boot on the station for a chance to kick Rhys out of the office it's rightfully his.

 

Draped on this very desk – Jack's desk, it's still his... the body is not even cold yet – looking at Elpis, Rhys used to cuddle in the post-coital warmth of his lover's embrace, drowning in cascading kisses while Jack poured love and giggles down his throat like oxygen. They used to gaze outside, pulsating and unafraid, knowing the universe was theirs, a limitless alcove of infinite bliss.

 

But now Jack is dead.

 

Helios, Rhys' Helios, just went out.

 

«Rhys, look at me.»

 

And he has to do something before it falls into unworthy hands. Unloved, traitorous claws.

 

Clasping his hands, the bones of his flesh hand cracking under the spasmodic grip of the metal one, Rhys turns around. Down the steps to the CEO's desk, Tim shudders.

 

Standing tall against the cold, unforgiving expanse of the universe, Rhys stares at him, silent and very, very quiet. It's amazing and a little bit terrifying how, between the blinking stars and cracked moon outside the windows, Rhys' eyes are the darkest thing in the room right now.

 

Tim gulps, and a sudden thought hits him, like a bullet in the back of the neck.

 

_The King is dead, long live the King._

 

Rhys breathes from somewhere far, far away: «Blood.»

 

«W-What?» Tim blurts.

 

A few clicks on his cybernetic hand, and Rhys has names, CCTV feed across the station, coordinates and hiding spots. He sends it all to Tim, and this time his voice brooks no argument.

 

«Bring me their blood.» Traitors, all of them. Jack would love this, love him even more for what he's about to do – well, what Tim's about to do, actually. His ECHO eye sparkles in the dim light of the office. «And make me watch.»

 

Now, that's an interesting choice of words, Tim thinks: he has to _make_ him watch. It's like Rhys doesn't really want to, but he must, he has to. Because that's what kings do, they take the burden of blood and smoking guns, and use it to sew their own regal, cardinal mantle.

 

Tim barely resists the urge to bow, and then he's gone.

 

Rhys stands by the window, watching it all unfold.

 

Alone.

 

 


	2. Upon pillars of salt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to clarify, there's no actual Rhysothy in this fic. I think all of Rhys' flirting is just some sort of coping mechanism related to Jack's death. I suppose he sees a lot of Jack in Tim, but not what made him fall in love with Jack in the fist place, whatever it was.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

«How's he doing?»

«He's sleeping.» On the couch of Jack's office, Vaughn's finally asleep. At times, when Rhys isn't looking, he whimpers; sometimes he begs on the deaf ears of ghostly mercenaries. Most of the time he simply snores, blissfully unaware. His glasses, cracked and askew on his bloodied nose, can't hide one black, swollen eye and a fresh collection of bruises and cuts. Rhys reaches for Tim, holding him close in a warm, grateful hug, and kisses one fine cheeckbone. «Thank God you found him when you did. They would have killed him.»

Tim snorts, carding his fingers through Rhys' surprisingly still intact coif. «That's what I'm here for, Not Boss.»

Rhys chuckles. It's a little joke between them: since Jack is... was Boss to Tim, it's only fair he'd call Rhys something else; certainly Not Boss though. Rhys lets him go almost ruefully, but for the first time in two days of murder and mayhem, he's got a smile on his face. A genuine one, Tim thinks.

He also thinks that that's not normal. But really, what's normal anymore? Jack is dead, corpses of managers and soldiers alike float on the surface of Helios' fountains and sewers, and Rhys is rising above it all like Venus from the sea, riding waves and waves of blood of his – and Jack's – enemies.

There's nothing 'normal' about it. It never was.

«So,» Rhys takes a deep breath, rubbing his hands together, eager to get back to it. «What about Yvette?»

Tim makes a face. Oh, how he dreaded this. «I couldn't find her.»

Rhys' brow rises in an unsettling familiar way. «Couldn't, or wouldn't?»

Tim rubs his lips with one hand. Suddenly, he needs a drink. Or two. Preferably from Moxxi's cleavage, thank you very much. And his glove smells like vomit and iron. «Look, Rhys...»

«Not Boss,» the young CEO corrects him with an indulgent smile, his eyes glinting with humour. Poor Tim, all of this must be so confusing to him, so new... But Rhys forgives him. Because he's awesome like that.

Tim nods, «Right, Not Boss. You once told me Yvette was your one of your best friends...»

Rhys nods. «Sure,» He points his metal thumb over his shoulder, towards the sleeping accountant. «She's also the reason why my other best friend was beaten to a pulp. She sold us out to Blake.» He lowers his thumb, clenches his fist and sneers. «She has to die.»

«I know you think she must,» Tim concedes, choosing his words very, very carefully. «I just... Look, Rhys, you're a good guy...»

«No,» Rhys clasps his metal hand on Tim's shoulder, locking eyes with him like the inspiring motivator he knows he is. « _We_ are the good guys, Timothy. It's not our fault everybody else is evil.»

 _Oh, definitely familiar,_ Tim shudders. «I'm just saying, you could regret it. What if you wake up one day and realize you lost someone you used to love because you couldn't forgive her one single mistake? Even Jack didn't kill Athena when he had the chance, why can't you just...» Tim throws one hand in the air, trying to grasp words he can't fathom. «Let her go?»

Rhys falls silent for a while, his eyes deep and questioning.

On the couch, Vaughn rasps «Rhys...» under his breath, and throws the blanket away, caged in his own feverish nightmare. Rhys rushes to his side in the blink of an eye, all soothing touches and murmured reassurances, and tucks him back under the Hyperion issued blanket, kissing his crusted forehead with the soothing gentleness of a loving protector.

When he stands up from the couch, there's no trace of kindness in the curl of his lips.

«Tim, I know our working relationship is fairly new, but allow me to make one thing clear.» He walks to the body double with the languid demeanour of a predator. «Despite the nickname, I _am_ your boss now. If I say 'jump', you take an OzKit and fucking jump...»

He circles Tim's neck with his arms, his smile cold and dangerous. «... If I say 'kill', you blow up a planet with your bare hands. If I say...»

He leans in, whispering in Tim's ear like the murder of his friend is just one big game of tag to him. «... 'I want Yvette's head on a plate', you say...»

Tim, frozen in place, petrified to the very core, wets his lips and mutters: «Silver or gold?»

Rhys chuckles – actually chuckles – and places the barest of kisses on the body double's cheek.

«Platinum. Only the best for my besties.»

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Now in the morning I sleep alone

 

 

 

 

 

Rhys jumps out of bed wearing nothing but his boxers, Van Gogh's Starry Night printed on their back. The whirling multitude of stars in the centre of the painting is suggestively positioned lower between his cheeks, a brazen, glowing in the dark Milky Way winking with... deeper meaning. They're a gift from Jack, obviously. The CEO used to say that, with that showing him the way, he would always hit the spot. Rhys used to laugh at that, before kissing him senseless and asking... no, demanding they do it with the lights on this time.

After a few months in their relationship, Rhys had stopped wearing underwear in bed entirely – sometimes he even dared go full commando in public, when the desire or boredom struck him. Besides, he'd rather sleep naked by his lover's side, inhaling his scent, dripping with his fluids.

But now, what's the point? He can't sleep anyway, and the sheets on the right side of the bed are coarse and freezing under his fingertips, a very specific Jack-shaped void moulding Rhys' very existence.

«Ugh, for Christ's sake, cover yourself!» Tim groans, covering his eyes in mock disgust. «Your sense of style makes me want to ride Kraggons without condom.»

«Nope.» He pops the 'p' out of his pursed lips with a playful grin, disappearing into the bathroom with a wink and a shadow of tongue between his teeth. «Alright, give it to me, sugarTims.»

Tim flinches. That's how Jack used to call him «I've found her in one of the old Veins maintenance tunnels. She was hiding in the ex quarantine zone.»

«Gross,» comes a nauseated gag over the sound of running water. «Never understood why Jack never bothered wiping out that place.»

«Crap memory?»

«More likely he enjoyed the thought of having something so lethal under his ass all the time.» Rhys smiles wistfully to himself. «That big idiot.»

 _My big idiot_ , goes unsaid.

«So what are you gonna do with her?»

Rhys head peeps out from the shower door. He blinks once, twice, genuinely confused. «Uh, she isn't dead yet?»

Tim rolls his eyes. «No, she isn't.»

Rhys pouts – oh for God's sake, Tim grumbles internally, how can he look so _childish_ while talking about murdering someone? «And why is that, uh? Too busy playing with your two selves to remember one simple instruction? Where's my best friend's head on a platinum plate, Timothy?»

«Don't get your dreadful knickers in a twist, _mother,_ » Tim snickers, crossing his arms defensively. «I couldn't kill her, the plague spreads faster and more aggressively through dead bodies. You would have caught it the second I lifted the dome.»

Rhys gasps, bewildered. «Oh.»

« _Oh_ indeed.»

He steps out of the shower, rummaging in the bathroom closet in search for a dry towel. He has his own bathrobe of course, but it's in the laundry. «I guess I should thank you then.»

«Please don't buy me any underwear.»

«Spoilsport,» Rhys giggles. Despite everything, it's a good sound. Tim likes it when Rhys giggles, he... sounds more like himself then. His usual dorky, good natured self. He sits on the bed, Rhys' loneliness and discomfort embedded in the silk, in every wrinkle, in every wet spot on his pillow. Physical, soft desperation, sticky with sweat and anguish. Tim lets the urge to crush Rhys' enemies wash over him, gripping the pillow as if goose feathers could kill.

«You know it.» Silence lingers more than necessary, and Tim stands up, suddenly on edge. «Rhys?»

When he walks into the bathroom, hands to the shotgun, Rhys stands naked in front of him, droplets falling on the floor without a sound. He stands there, shoulders faintly shaking, body deceptively soft and fragile, his shrouded eyes fixed on Jack's mask.

«His spare.» He traces the edges of the mask with shaky thumbs, biting his lower lip, desperately trying to contain the excruciating cry that threatens to shatter him.

Tim's heart breaks in his place. «Oh, Rhys...»

Rhys lifts his head, and glares at him. There's a plea in his eyes... his open, haunted eyes, mismatched not unlike his very soul and heart.

_Please. Please please please tell me I'm good. Tell me I'm a good person, that was love that broke me. Tell me this... this bloodthirsty monster hasn't been lurking under my skin all this time, waiting for the right moment to strike. Tell me I'm good, you're the only one who can, because Jack is gone and I don't know who I am anymore._

Tim hugs him. Hugs him and hugs him and hugs him, and he doesn't care if Rhys is unresponsive, suffocated and engulfed by his own grief, he keeps hugging him, determined to squeeze all uncertainty and doubt out of him, trying to convince himself that yes, yes, of course Rhys is a good man.

He has to be.

«Thank you,» Rhys whispers to Tim's neck before pushing away, mask still firmly in his grasp. He doesn't look at him when he turns around, facing the mirror with a ominous growl. «Now, bring me Vasquez.»

Tim, wet and trembling with emotion, scatters to obey.

Finally alone, Rhys lifts the mask to eye level, and smiles through the tears.

«Hello, Handsome.»

He gazes into the mask's empty eye sockets, and leans in to kiss it on the lips. They're unyielding, plastic and cold, but a whiff of Jack's aftershave still lingers on them, and it makes him sob deep down his throat, so brokenly the whole room shifts for a moment.

There's something awfully familiar about all this, Rhys mulls almost feverishly. True, he's no Salome – he hasn't the hips for it – and Jack was no saint, but sometimes he called him Princess, and Rhys did ask for Yvette's head on a plate.

Maybe it's meant to be.

Rhys smirks, looking at his reflection in the mirror through Jack's eyes.

«Awesome.»

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was intense.
> 
> I love Aubrey Beardsley's illustrations for Wilde's Salome, they'd been of great inspiration for this chapter. 
> 
> Hope you liked it! Please, let me know if I've made any mistakes!


End file.
